


does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine?

by charlotteicewolf77



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Deamus FTW, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Maybe slightly AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4571940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlotteicewolf77/pseuds/charlotteicewolf77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts is magical, but life is not always so. Even a wizarding school is stuck in the real world. Seamus Finnigan first discovers this in 4th year and it scares the shit out of him. </p><p>Based on the tumblr post: Seamus Finnigan (unofficially gay) buying shady potions to take because his mom doesn’t approve of that “lifestyle.” Him crying in one of the greenhouses and being found by a worried Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	does it trouble your mind the way you trouble mine?

**Author's Note:**

> Guess which tv show inspired me  
> Also: If any of you feel upset/ worried/ whatever about your sexuality or your gender, PLEASE TALK TO SOMEONE ABOUT IT

At 14 and a half, Seamus realises he likes a boy. Maybe boys, plural, but his affection is too tangled in the barbed wire thoughts of his best friend to figure that out. And when he realises, as Dean sings some muggle song about Saturday nights horribly in the shower, his first thought is: what the fuck will his mother say? Which is slightly terrible, but soft compared to the realisation that she’s going to hate him. And Seamus wants to cry because if his mother can hate him then the other students will have no qualms about it.

He can see it now- walks to class through angry mutterings and the common room cold from resentful stares. And Dean… Dean will hate him. He almost does cry, but he figures he shouldn’t. He already has too much to be ashamed about.

 

“What’s up?” Dean asks as beads of water drip down his skin from his shower and Seamus feels hatred boil under his skin as he imagines so many sordid, dirty things.

“Nothing,” he mutters, a little sulkily, winces at his voice. The anger boils under his skin some more, bubbling and threatening to spill over into the dormitory and he rolls over onto his side away from Dean. Seamus gets angry sometimes, he knows that, and he doesn’t want to shout at his best friend.

“You sure?” and _Merlin_ , Dean sounds so gentle and concerned and Seamus wants to cry and scream because he doesn’t deserve it. The other boy would never be like this if he knew he was such a perverted poof.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he replies and Dean leaves it at that.

 

~0~

 

At the Yule Ball they dance to a couple of songs together- as a _joke_ , as _friends_ \- Seamus has to keep reminding himself of that afterwards. No one gives them weird looks, because everyone knows they’re dancing together in a stupid, awkward way just as _friends_. Mates pratting about together like teenage boys are supposed to do. His friend’s hands are big, with long fingers that have charcoal and graphite and ink pressed deep into every crease. They hold his own- small, thin, grubby- hands with a tenderness Seamus has never experienced before, sets his flesh on fire with the heat of how much he _wants_ Dean.

The song changes to a slow one, crooning lyrics and gentle notes and everything. Seamus makes a wonky gesture with his hands as he looks at Dean, an unspoken ask. Dean rolls his eyes and gives an unspoken answer as he lets the Irishman drag him onto the dance floor and puts those strong hands on his waist.

 

It’s a terribly awkward little thing they do, often stepping on the other’s feet and getting very close to falling in a heap a couple of times. But as Seamus looks up, big grin on his face, he doesn’t care. He couldn’t care less what they look like or if they’re just dancing as _friends_. Because he can pretend, right now, and the pretence is beautiful.

Once the song ends, Seamus grins again, presses a kiss to Dean’s cheek in what he hopes is a joking manner, gives him a cheeky wink and looks for Lavender to dance with. Or Parvati. Just a girl. It’s a different pretending now.

 

That night, someone sneaks in some fire whiskey and the party continues once everyone is back in the common room. Seamus enjoys the burn as it goes down his throat and has a bit more than he probably should, but the same can be said for most of them that night. And if he feels guilty when he wanks off to the memory later, well. Seamus is good at ignoring things like that.

 

~0~

 

Over the summer, it’s hard because him and his Ma are arguing about Harry and Hogwarts and a million other trivial little things that suddenly bother them immensely now they’re living in a practical war zone. They’re both angry, tempers and possessions flying and Seamus wants to tell her just out of spite. To feel the grim, empty satisfaction as she screams and chucks him out. But he can’t. He can’t because she carried on looking after him when Dad left. When she had to work two muggle jobs on top of her wizard job to get them by. And his brain reminds him of that with _every, single row._

 

Then Dean comes to stay and, _Merlin,_ Seamus can _breathe_ at last. Chocolate eyes and charcoal smeared hands bring his mother to silent glares and hisses. It’s wrong of him to love Dean but he can’t change it any more than he can change his mother’s thoughts about Harry. That fortnight is spiralling yellow happiness smelling of muggle aftershave and cocoa and, really, Seamus thinks, who can blame him for falling in love because who wouldn’t?

“Your mum seems a bit…” Dean can’t finish the sentence, trailing off and staring languidly at the cracked ceiling of Seamus’ bedroom.

“Bitchy?” Seamus supplies. “Off her head? In need of a good smack?”

He smirks, “I was thinking of ‘tense’. Or maybe ‘stressed out’.” Seamus smirks back, glad Dean isn’t asking about the arguments because Seamus would tell him.

“Only because you’re so polite, you tosser.” Dean throws a piece of screwed up paper at his forehead and it quickly descends into the pillow fight of the decade. His mother isn’t home to tell them to shut up, and even though one neighbour bangs on the wall and tells them to kill the noise in curse-filled Gaelic, they carry on. Until they fall back onto the mattress, heaving for breath and still laughing as best they can without hardly any oxygen in their lungs.

“Merlin,” Dean gets out, grin firmly fixed on his face.

“Don’t keep mistaking me for him- I’ll get big headed,” Seamus teases, feeling happy like he did at the Yule Ball. He knows that, later, he’ll feel guilty for lying to Dean and bad because he loves him more but that’s what distractions are for, right?”

 

~0~

 

But Dean leaves and the rows start and the prophet gets a bit more convincing and his mother a bit more tearful until eventually Seamus gives in and agrees because anything else is just too _hard._ The swirling blackness in him grows and grows. Grows until he has to lash out at Harry like that because he _just can’t take it much more_. Seamus can’t keep secrets well.

On and on it goes and when Dean and the Quibbler eventually succeed in convincing him otherwise, he hates his friend a bit. Now he has nothing to distract him from his secret and a part of him likes hating Dean because _that_ might fix him. Only another part of him hates that part and so it carries on some more.

 

~0~

 

He sees how lines with the pink bitch of a defence teacher result in bowls of Merlin knows what and it hits him. He wonders why he didn’t think of it before, because _why_ didn’t he?

He’s magic. Magic can fix things. Magic can fix _him_.

Seamus is so happy that everyone notices how he can’t stop smiling even when he’s getting ready for bed. It’s the holidays soon, he can go to Diagon Alley and fix it all.

 

~0~

 

“I can go to Diagon Alley by myself, Ma,” he reassures her, pulling on his coat and burying his gloved hands in his pockets, clenching at the money there. Good thing they’re in England for Christmas- the Irish knight bus is even more of a harrowing experience than the one in England. Seamus enjoys the feeling of the cold through his coat and decides to walk all the way there instead of catching the muggle bus like he first planned.

 

~0~

 

Once he's tapped the brick to get him in, he falters. Just a bit. But he still carries on walking, burying himself in his collar and hat so as no one can possibly recognise him. New year sales come to the wizarding world too, and the streets are packed with shoppers looking for a bargain. it takes him longer than it usually would, because of all the people, but the crowds thin out as he gets to the older streets. They’re more run down and buildings closer together, little nooks running off into darkened, shadowed side streets. Rickety wooden stairs leading up and up to tiny, damp attics and cobbles uneven underfoot. The people here loitered near the shop fronts and seemed as grim as their surroundings. Seamus tries to ignore them, tries to focus on counting the numbers until he gets to the door of the shop that the advert in the daily prophet said. It had been brilliant, when he found it the day before going home for Christmas. Having figured out that he could fix himself with potions, he had been stumped on _where_ precisely to get any. But maybe the world favoured those who tried to be gay.

 

~0~

 

"Can I help you?" the wizened old wizard behind the counter asks, voice creaky and piercing the dusty silence. Seamus had been waiting for the equally old redheaded witch to leave before shuffling slowly closer.

"Um, yeah. See I saw this in the daily prophet," he places the ripped out piece of paper on the grubby wood, shuffling his feet. "And..."

"Yes, we do have some still left in supply," one blue eye looks up, glaringly large through the dinted gold monocle. "It's in the back. Wait here a moment." he shuffles off and Seamus lets his knees buckle and leans against the wall. Relief is a cool blue tidal wave all over, soothing the angry red that is everything wrong with him.

Looking around, the shop is a lot bigger than he thought. You couldn’t see it from the outside- the window is covered in layers of filth and peeling gold letters. The man- Mr Wilberforce Woodrow, if the advert is right- comes shuffling back in, bent double with age and gnarly fingers clutching a box with some suspicious looking stains on it.

"Good thing you came today," he says without looking up. The old digits punch at various buttons on the till and an indecipherable sign pops up, accompanied by a dim flicker of a yellow whistle. The magic charms on it long faded. Seamus feels suddenly sad. Everything in here was young like him once. "We're almost out of stock- keep forgetting to order more."

“Big demand for it, is there?" the casualness is forced and fitting for such a situation.

"It's picked up again lately," the ancient voice creaks and Seamus wishes he could talk t the other people who brought it. Just to talk, or.... something. To make it all seem less roaring fear and more smiley, enticing hope.

a crumpled booklet is retrieved from a shelf and placed on top of the box, "That's what you need to read for the side effects and the instructions," he dictates. "The distributer forgot to publish a new booklet for this version of the treatment but the booklet for the old one says the same things."

Seamus passes over the money with a clammy, shaking limb, thanks the wizard and hurries back out into the gloomy street. There are a few coins still in his pocket, clinking together with his trembling knees, arms wrapped round the brown paper bag. It’s a bit of a juxtaposition- if that's the word he's looking for. An unassuming brown paper bag as flimsy as those little pink flowers in Herbology, but containing, but containing the thing that will, in effect, change his life.

As is the case in winter, night comes early and the blonde teen hurries back to the wider, still- crowded streets that reek of familiarity, away from the dingy unknown. It’s his Ma’s birthday soon, and there was this red scarf in one shop window…

 

~0~

 

The soft wool covers the little green box completely and his mother doesn’t press further when he tells her she can’t look in the bag- wishes he had taken his coat with the pockets his Ma had enlarged, but it’s too late now. He escapes her questioning gaze to his room and locks the door. Not that that will stop her for more than two seconds but it’s the principle of the thing, he supposes.

He wraps the scarf in the wrapping paper left over from Christmas, with the dancing elves dressed as Santa or someone, puts it in his trunk. The blackness in his chest is expanding, wrapping dark tendrils over his organs and creeping up his throat. It’s a good thing he’s done it now, Seamus decides. Because it’s not too late now. He can still have his whole life as normal.

 

The snow that started falling on the way back has made the bag a bit damp, but apart from some residual sogginess at the spine of the instruction booklet the contents are fine. It’s to be expected- he didn’t have enough money for any bus, wizard or otherwise, after he brought the scarf so he brought hot chocolate and drank it on the way home. Seamus traces a finger over the harsh black title, dark like his secret. “Mr Morris’ Potion Treatment” underneath, in neat cursive, the subtitle is “Banishing the darkness of the soul.” With a shaking breath, he flips to the first page.

 

~0~

 

Mr Morris’ Potion Treatment contains 30 phials of treatment potion, to banish the darkness in the soul of the taker. This darkness can include:

Mental illness, psychosomatic illnesses, perverted thoughts, homosexuality, lack of magical ability.

For the full, exhaustive list you can consult your local apothecary or send an owl to the Mr Morris customer desk. Please remember to take all 30 doses of potion, even if you feel the desired effect has been achieved before the end of the 30 days. This ensures a continuing banishment and no degrading effects. Side effects are completely normal, though the results are well worth it.

Instructions for consumption: Take one potion every day for 30 consecutive days. Take each potion at the same time each day for best results; though taking it later after forgetting and then at the correct time the following day can help to negate any unwanted effects. It is IMPERATIVE that you do not miss a dose. Forgetting to take a day’s potion can result in the wanted effects of the treatment becoming void.

The side effects of Mr Morris’ Potion Treatment include:

Nausea, vomiting, dizziness, headache, tremors, breathlessness, clammy skin, pale or wan complexion, coughing, restlessness, irritation and fatigue.

Please note: taking more than one dose of treatment potion a day can be harmful to your health. The makers and distributers of Mr Morris’ Potion Treatment take no responsibility for any harm that may come to the consumer of the treatment.

 

~0~

 

Immediately, Seamus knows he has to wait until he goes back to Hogwarts to start, because if he starts now he’ll fuck up and leave the phials somewhere stupid and his Ma will see and guess. Plus, if there are any side effects, he might be able to win a sympathy vote from some of the girls. Seamus has this planned out.

 

~0~

 

On the train, he’s constantly fiddling with the buckles on his trunk, terrified the precious little phials will smash before he can drink their contents. He doesn’t let anybody else touch his trunk, and drags it all the way up to the dormitory until he _has_ to check. Pulling open the box’s lid and counting all the ones intact. 30. It’s ok, he can still fix it. The relief is washing through him and suddenly he’s exhausted. Keeping a secret is hard work.

There are footsteps on the stairs and he quickly hides the box in his bedside table. No can know.

It’s Dean, Dean who he’s absolutely in love with and is the reason he found out his secret. “You not eating dinner?” Seamus asks, not even lifting his head from where he’s lying spread-eagle on his bed.

“Not hungry,” Dean shrugs, putting his toothbrush and toothpaste back in the bathroom. “What about you?”

“Same here,” Seamus feels his eyes drooping, forces them back open. “How was your Christmas?”

“Good. Got dragged to my Nan’s instead of her coming over because she fell off the curb and hurt her ankle. What about yours?”

“It were alright,” he shrugs. “Prefer having it in Ireland, if I’m honest.”

And they carry on talking. Inconsequential nothings about the things teenage boys in wizard school talk about. And it’s… nice. But Seamus can’t help but think it’ll be even nicer if he wasn’t desperately in love with his best friend.

 

~0~

 

The next night, he eats dinner and then practically sprints up the stairs to the dormitory. No one else is there and he grins. The world really does reward people who want to change. He sets the first phial down on his bedside table. The cold green glass glints into the oppressing silence. Now is, of course, the beginning of the change. He has the little booklet practically memorised and he gets it out one last time. Eyes stepping down each line, slowly descending to the bottom of the last page. The full stop is very resolute and square, unbending in its existence.

Despite how much he wants this, Seamus is a bit scared. Sure: it’s what he wants, what his Ma and Dean and the world will want if they ever find out. But still. Bit scary.

 

The last of the sunset makes the little thing and its contents shine brighter for a second, laughing in the golden rays. And it’s taunting him- telling him he can back out now. It’s tempting, but… Seamus reaches over a shaking limb and empties the rancid potion down his throat. It burns his flesh like the fire whiskey did but this time with the bad sins of being a disgusting pervert. He relishes the feeling, spreads himself out on his bed and waits for it to go into his bloodstream and fix him.

 

~0~

 

It’s a little while after dinner is over that it happens. The homework Flitwick set is in front of him but he’s been staring at his unfinished sentence for the last ten minutes. Every time he snaps out of it he forces the ink into a few words before it’s drifting off again. Bleeding like the thick, black ink into the parchment. Dean is on the next bed reading and Seamus feels his stomach twinge as he looks at the lithe beauty of the Dean Thomas enigma. Except…

He’s up off his bed like there’s a firework up his arse and heaving his dinner into the toilet. It burns on the way up and Seamus imagines it to be all the bad things inside him coming back up instead of bangers and mash. The leaflet said that side effects could include nausea; Seamus thinks that’s rather an understatement. Soon it’s over. Though not until what’s left of breakfast and lunch have joined the mix and once there’s nothing left to get rid of Seamus feels immensely better. Like when Dean came in the summer only more cold and shaky. Speaking of Dean- the taller boy has cottoned on to his friend’s sorry state and is standing worriedly by the door.

“You alright there, mate?” his frown and the little crease between his eyebrows so soft and velvet are why his friend is currently puking his guts out. No. No, he’s not alright.

“Yeah,” he manages a grin but knows he looks as sick as his secret. “Something from dinner just settled a bit wrong with me, I suppose.”

“D’you want me to fetch Madame Pomfrey?” Dean asks- good heart to go with good looks.

“Nah,” Seamus goes for cocky as he flushes the loo and makes his way toward the sink. “I’m feeling much better already.”

“If you say so,” he doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe you should have an early night.”

“Maybe,” Seamus agrees. Dean seems to take that as his cue to leave and Seamus sighs and leans his forehead against the cool tiles. Well shit. That little performance probably means a wasted potion. But at least he knows now. He can eat less dinner tomorrow. That, he reflects, washing his hands in the cool liquid like he wishes could soothe his inner turmoil, would probably mean the potion working quicker. Alcohol works quicker that way, doesn’t it? Oh well. He would find out tomorrow.

 

~0~

 

So, in the midst of chatter and gossip and a few late owls, Seamus Finnigan fills only half his plate and Dean fills his senses when he reaches across the table for the butter. The taller boy notices the white of the crockery still visible and does another one of _those_ frowns. “Are you still not feeling very well?”

Really, Seamus thinks, being so attractive should be a crime. “Had lots of lunch,” he shrugs. Is grateful when Lavender chimes in with a disgusted, ‘stuffing his face he was’ and unknowingly helping him out. Dean doesn’t look convinced but the second little green phial only gives him a vague and rocking queasiness that night so Seamus can find it in him to mind.

 

~0~

 

Seamus eats hardly any dinner on the third night, and the same, unsettling, uncomfortable but bearable nausea happens again and he’s starting to think he might have gotten away from it. That he just has to put up with this for the next 26 days and he’ll be normal and fixed. It’s a wonderful thought while it lasts.

 

On the fourth night, he is hunched over a table in the common room, trying desperately to finish his potions homework before first lesson tomorrow because Snape is a greasy bastard and will give him about five detentions if he doesn’t hand it in. so absorbed in the wonky ink and details of stirring in mandrake root before dicing and crushing a bit more to give the potion a syrup-like consistency and the exact shade of purple. So absorbed, he only realises dinner is over when a gaggle of first years make their way through the portrait door, loud and obnoxious in the way anyone younger is when you’re 15. The Irish teen looks in horror at the clock, before hurrying up to his dormitory and completely abandoning his stuff on the table. Because he almost _missed it_. He _can’t_ miss it. Then he won’t be fixed like he needs to be. The liquid is emptied down his throat before he quite knows what’s happening and relief is mixed with the burn. Seamus makes his way slowly back down the stairs, holding tight to the banister. The adrenaline is leaving and he feels tired all of a sudden.

He goes back to his essay- thankfully untouched by the grubby hands of first years. Dean and Neville turn up as he’s halfway through, pull out their parchment and quills and begin to finish the exact same homework. But they’re responsible and organized in a way that Seamus will never be, so they finish well before him.

“Where were you at dinner?” Neville asks him.

“Doing this bloody essay,” Seamus grumbles, now three quarters of the way through. “Snape’s a damn bastard, giving us three days to write this.”

“Shouldn’t we be used to it by now?” Dean muses, sketching something on a fresh piece of parchment.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” the smaller teen replies. “Anyway, I’ll sneak down and get something from the kitchens later.”

 

He forgets to sneak down and get something from the kitchens later, distracted as he is by the bloody essay. By the time he’s finished, the fire in the grate is almost burnt down and his eyes hurt from the strain. All he wants by this point is to sleep and he drags himself up to bed, stopping only to pull off his shirt and throw it haphazardly on top of his trunk. He’s asleep before his head hits the pillow, falling into deep black nothing.

 

“Seamus? Seamus you lazy arsehole- get up!” the voice is accompanied by something hard hitting him in the shoulder. Seamus ignores it, rolls over and tries to go back to the deep black comforting emptiness. Can’t be time to wake up yet; he’s only closed his eyes a few minutes ago. “Seamus!” the voice snaps again and he yanks open his eyes with a grown only to be met with the glares of both Dean and Neville.

“What?” he mumbles sleepily. “There a fire?”

“Nope- you’ve almost missed breakfast.” Neville explains. “Get up or you’ll miss potions as well.”

“Bollocks!” Seamus grimaces, any tiredness instantly forgotten at the possibility of having a detention with Snape. “I’m up, I’m up!” he promises, kicking the covers off and standing up. That, though, turns out to be a mistake, he realises as soon as his feet hit the floor. Black spots dance in front of his eyes and his vision goes a bit wavy for a moment or two. He doesn’t know what’s going on for a split second but then he notices the room is spinning too. Ah, yes, another side effect.

There’s a string of profanity from somewhere and then strong hands on his shoulders making him sit back down on his bed. He can smell… oh, shit, it’s Dean. It’s always Dean, isn’t it? “Shay? What’s wrong?”

He tries to pull away, get away from the warm, beautiful smell of art and aftershave but his friend is too strong and too concerned. “Nothing’s wrong. ‘M alright, Dean, just got a bit dizzy for a second.” But it’s not a second, the room’s still spinning and Seamus just wants them to _get out_ so he can deal with this by himself.

There’s muttering between the other two and then Dean is making him sit with his head between his knees which is a bit weird but it helps so Seamus isn’t complaining. “It might be low blood sugar,” Neville is musing. “Didn’t you go down to the kitchens last night?”

“Didn’t have the time,” the world- unlike his inner emotions- is starting to steady out again. “I was doing that bloody essay for Snape all night.”

“You idiot,” but Dean says that whilst his thumbs are rubbing tiny little comforting circles onto his shoulders so Seamus thinks his insult is a bit void. “Come on, get dressed. You need breakfast.”

 

~0~

 

Dean wants to go and collect leaves or something for his next piece of artwork and Seamus can’t see the harm in being dragged along. Dean is his best friend and the potion won’t change that. Trudging through the damp muddy ground on the outskirts of the forest isn’t something most people would do on the weekend but oh well. The harsh grey branches loom overhead, out of place with the few blossoms and green leaves about. Seamus’ attention becomes fixed on a single leaf up high but low enough to see clearly. The gusts of wind are shaking it and pawing at the flimsy stem tying it down. A tiny rat battling a wolf and it’s only a matter of time…

It seems like the wind has lost when the air stills and the leaf remains atop the rough bark. But the blowing starts up again not even a second later and the leaf shakes a little harder this time. Twisting and turning in the cross fire until.

It’s gone. The wind has won and the leaf is floating away in the now soft current. Seamus watches it meander steadily out of sight and the wind turns its attention to yet another stubborn foe. The wind will always win eventually. Though it might help spread seeds and for new trees to erupt bursting with leafy life it will blow them away too. On and on forever until something gets rid of them both entirely. It feels strangely apt and fitting and not for the first time Seamus hasn’t got very much hope for a future with a fixed him who can bring a nice witch girl home for tea with his Ma. To marry and invite Dean and his girl to their wedding. And in that still moment, Seamus feels oh so very, very small and tiny. Like the kind when you realise you are one of billions of humans and aren’t all that important in the grand scheme of things.

His breath catches on the jagged sins in his throat and he rubs his palms into his eyes. The world, when he resumes looking, is faded to various shades of grey and Seamus still feels so very small. Dean is a little way ahead now, attention for the leaves within his reach never having wavered and totally ignorant of his friend's recent epiphany. "See this next piece..."the taller boy's voice fades in and out like his Nan's dodgy old wireless when it rains. "...And it'll show this really good sort of contrasting opposites if you know what I mean..."

Then the static of the soothing satin litany goes all together and Seamus pulls himself out of his reverie with so much force it starts the beginning of a headache in his temples. Dean has noticed his slowing pace and indifferent expression. Shite. "I'm boring you, aren't I?" he asks sheepishly. The smaller boy wants to tell him 'no, not at all, I was just thinking about how trying to fix being a poof is like this leaf I just saw.' But that'll earn him one of those weird looks.

"Nah, mate," he gives a wonky smile. "Sorry, I was just thinking of something else. So, contrasting opposites, yeah?" And Dean carries on with sparkling eyes and happy mood. Explaining the intricacies of his next canvas- because muggles use those instead of parchment, Seamus remembers. And all the tiny little details people would analyse if they were muggle art students and Dean's artwork ever got that good.

 

Seamus develops a bit of a routine as they wind through the trees: nod, hold some leaves, give back the leaves once Dean sorts his bag out, repeat. Occasionally throw in an observation or a witty remark for a bit of variety. It's easy in a way things haven't been in over a year and he loves. it. So of course it all goes up the creek.

"Shit!" the blonde curses as what is seemingly a lightning bolt hits his head. The dull waves of the earlier headache break down the floodgates and roar into being. Tossing and turning. One hand clutches at the calloused surface of the nearest tree and the other fists its digit into his hair as he screws his eyes shut.

"Seamus?" Dean means well but _fuck_ it hurts. He hovers in front of him, reeking of worry and Seamus- bad though it is- grabs onto his sleeve and hold on tight as his headache racks up another notch.

"Fuck," Seamus breathes out into the wind but Dean hears it anyway he's that close.

"What's wrong?" he's doing that comforting circle thing with his fingers again and Seamus wants to cry. He's feeling like this because Dean can't _stop_ being so nice and making Seamus fall in love with him.

Seamus breathes out, loosens his grip on the tree trunk and stands up a bit straighter. If Dean is put out over the hand still clutching his sleeve like a life line, he isn't complaining. It still hurts, but it;s worth it, as he reminds himself. He needs this to be fixed. "'S alright," he reassures Dean.

"It looks it!" the taller boy retaliates, worried but still soft. So soft.

"It _is_ ," he insists. "Just a headache came on a bit suddenly is all. I'm alright now; it's faded a bit."

The other teen seemingly accepts this, stepping back slightly as he finally loosens his grip. "Maybe you should go and see Madame Pomfrey." Which is the second time he's suggested it, now. "You've been acting a bit weird lately."

"I'm _fine_ ," he insists.

"I'm worried about you," Dean murmurs. "Being sick and getting dizzy isn't normal, Shay."

But he _can't_ go. Madame Pomfrey has those eyes he just can't lie to and she'd be disgusted with _why_ he was taking the potion but she would have to make him stop. And no. He's not stopping, no way is he stopping. "Dean," he meets his best friend's eyes and tries not to flinch. "I'm alright, I promise."

Dean doesn't ask any more questions but he slips an arm round Seamus' shoulders and says, "Let's go back inside- it's starting to get dark."

 

~0~

 

Five days later it's the eleventh day and Seamus has come to dread the time when they're leaving one class for another. It's too crowded in the corridors and Seamus is small, and all too often gets banged into by bigger students and their bags. They don't _mean_ to- well, most of them. Some of those Slytherins are nasty bastards at times. But they do bang into him and knock the breath out of him so he ends up coughing like he's caught the plague.

 

A particularly burly seventh year Hufflepuff storms round the corner, anger written all over his face, followed by an equally burly but less angry and more worried sixth year. Dean and Seamus jump out of the way, used to spats between the elder years. Except Seamus is tired, and that makes him slow and not fast enough to duck the bag swinging from the seventh year’s shoulder. It doesn’t hit him _hard_ , but enough to make him stumble and cough, fire in his lungs but he can’t tell if it’s the coughing or his secret. “The pains of being a midget,” Dean teases but his smile is tinged with worry like it always is nowadays but Seamus ignores it.

He’s good at ignoring stuff.

 

~0~

 

There’s an upcoming Hogsmeade trip and Dean asks if he wants to go, asks when he’s just come out the shower with only a towel on and giving Seamus an eyeful of his lean, muscled back as he searches in his trunk for some clothes. Seamus is about to say ‘of course’, because it’s halfway through the little green phials and now when he sees Dean pull on a shirt he feels only slightly attracted. And he’s blaming that on nostalgia and the desire to actually have a girlfriend. So of course he’ll go, he can’t wait until he can hang out with his best friend and not be attracted to him.

But the coughing has gotten worse in the last few days and his affirmative of an answer is lost in between. Dean shoots him one of those concerned looks and adds, “If you’re up to it.”

To which he says, “Course I am!” Even though he starts coughing again right after.

 

~0~

 

Hogsmeade is on the 19th day and it is _good_. It’s good. He and Dean go to Zonko’s first, then Honeydukes. Seamus buys a few of his favourites, in preparation for a celebration for when he’s fixed. He already has a bottle of fire whiskey stuffed in the bottom of his trunk.

They have a butter beer in the Three Broomsticks, with Lavender and Parvati but they leave before them because Snape is a bastard and has set another essay that neither of them have even thought of starting yet.

It’s snowing when they leave the warm haven and the cold air mists into clouds in front of him. Solidifying the last remaining wisps of sin inside him, fading in with the grey and white landscape like a ghost. And, like that afternoon in the forest, Seamus’ mind wanders and he becomes entranced in thoughts of cold pale smoke. The freezing sin exits his red lips in a whooshing plume, a huge big gust. Then, ever so slowly, it gets a bit more spread out. The edges merge with the landscape and he gets so lost trying to trace all around the definitive line where one ends and the other begins, by the time he looks back to the cloud, it’s gone. Gone like a ghost from a muggle horror story. And he’s about to contemplate that disappearing act; get all deep and making analogies and metaphors when a snowball hits him right on the side of the head.

"You bastard!" Seamus yells at Dean's laughing figure, immediately throwing his own icy missile back. It misses, so Seamus makes another and starts to run. The taller boy must realise his intentions and also starts running. Dean is still laughing so Seamus catches up easier than he would normally do. He throws the compacted ball and hits his friend on the shoulder. They look at each other and then proceed to burst out laughing because, honestly, they should be far too old for this but it's _fun_.

Except it can’t last and Seamus starts coughing again. Only this time Seamus can’t stop and not being able to breathe properly is scary and apparently not just for him because dean's smile goes like someone's cast a spell and he comes over looking more worried than ever. And dean- dean in his ignorance about what a pervert his best friend is trying not to be- is nice, trying to calm him down and stop him coughing by rubbing his back and making him stand still. "You're alright," he murmurs quietly. "You're alright."

"Course I am," Seamus grins up at him, because dean knows his shit and it's helping. A lot. "Always alright, me." And dean, to his credit, because he's smart, smarter than Seamus. He doesn’t suggest to go to Madame Pomfrey or anything because he knows the blonde will refuse. Seamus is glad that, no matter how smart, he will never know his secret.

 

~0~

 

Dinner, well. Seamus doesn’t even get through half of dinner. His mind is wandering, not on the steak and kidney pudding in front of him. His thoughts keep going back to standing on the snowy path with Dean, gloved hands moving over his back and patch of warm stuck to his side as the other is battered by the cold wind. The realisation creep up on him slowly; the opposite of the evening when dean was singing the muggle song about Saturday nights in the shower. In between mouthfuls of pastry, his brow gradually furrows until he's picturing long, gentle fingers and supple wrist pressing down on his back, slipping under his shirt whilst slightly chapped lips get closer and closer to his.

He’s still in love with Dean Thomas.

Oh shit.

 

~0~

 

Dean’s attention is ripped away from today's daily prophet as Seamus shoves his still-full plate away. His friend looks pale with a tiny tinge of green as he swallows and touches a hand to his stomach before standing and leaving the hall without a word. It’s over and done with so quickly that dean doesn’t have the time to ask what's wrong and s left frowning at his friend's empty seat.

"What's up with him?" Ron asks round a mouthful of his own pudding.

Dean thinks about telling him. How he thinks Seamus might be sick but hiding it. Might have something big up with him because he's been acting strange ever since he came back to school. But his friend seems determined to keep whatever is going on to himself. So dean gives a nonchalant little shrug and simply tells Ron, "Probably realised he hasn’t even started his potions essay." Which the redhead seems to believe and turns back to his conversation with harry and Hermione. But dean and Neville share a look and he hurriedly finishes eating and goes up to the dormitory after Seamus.

 

When he gets there, the curtains around Seamus' bed are closed, which the blonde only does when he's in a bad mood and doesn’t want to talk to _anyone_. But all the same, Dean still tentatively asks, "Seamus? You alright, mate?" and attempts to quell the fear when he gets no reply.

 

~0~

 

Seamus feels tired as he climbs the stairs to the fifth year dormitory. Tired and the now ever constant feeling of slightly sick and also hungry like he always is in the evenings because otherwise the potion will make him puke like on the first night.

He’s terrified and panicking; because he still loves Dean Thomas in a not-friend way and _merlin_ the potion was meant to stop this. Was meant to make him _fixed_ and _normal_ and able to fall in love with girls. But it hasn’t worked and Seamus is desperate which is dangerous territory because Seamus has always done stupid things when he's desperate.

Point proven when he yanks open his drawer and pulls out the green box. There’s eleven phials left, only now the green looks sickly and not emerald and Seamus swallows the one he’s meant to take today. A pause. Hand hovering over the one he’s supposed to have tomorrow. The room is awash with his breathing, seeping into every crevasse or cranny. The booklet said… what did the booklet say? He can’t remember, his brain isn’t working right. Ink had spilled on the pages on the ninth day and he couldn’t remember the spell to get it off but he couldn’t show anyone, could he?

Dean comes to mind and that decides it. Down goes another one. And another and another until there are three more gone and his throat is burning. Burning on fire until he can’t think of anything but the pain and he swallows one more, _just in case_. But ok, ok: that’s enough. That’s enough he tells himself, enough for today. He can take more tomorrow. Fatigue is beginning to take over and he shoves the empty phials in his pocket because casting a spell would just take too much energy. Pulls the curtains shut and tries to sleep. Because if he's sleeping he isn’t thinking of Dean or anything else that makes him feel ashamed and angry and scared all at the same time.

 

~0~

 

It’s the middle of the night and not one boy in the fifth year dormitory is asleep. Although, to be fair, one of them isn’t even in the dormitory at all. That one absentee is Seamus, whose absence the other four are worriedly discussing.

“Wait, so _what_ happened again?” Ron asks, because he was asleep for most of it. The redhead could probably sleep through an earthquake.

“Seamus got up, knocked his bedside table over, created enough noise to raise the dead, looked around a bit drunk and then left like he hadn't even heard us,” Harry replies, ticking the list off on his fingers.

“Sleep walking?” Neville suggests. “Lots of people do that when they get stressed and he’s been really distracted lately.”

“Yeah, he's been losing points left, right and centre!” Ron grumbles.

“Ron!” the chastising voices of Harry and Neville make him flinch and he lies back down.

“I’ll go after him,” Dean announces, pulling on his socks and then righting the upended furniture. “Ron’s got the right idea; you should all just go back to sleep.”

“You sure?” Neville asks.

“Yeah. Besides, it’s Sunday tomorrow. What’ll it matter if I sleep in?” the rhetorical question sounds like a hollow veneer but Dean is starting down the stairs before he has a chance to ponder on it.

 

~0~

 

Seamus doesn’t have a clue where he’s going. The crumpled box and its still-full phials in his hand and the empty ones clinking together in his pocket are the only things he cares about. “Please,” he whispers as he leaves the common room, but he doesn’t know who he's talking to or what he’s even asking for. The Fat Lady says something but all he catches is the word ‘sick’ and it goes round and round in his head until he figures out he needs to be.

Except the potion will come out. Or will it? The question stops Seamus in the middle of the corridor, sagging against the cold wall. Because he read some of Dean’s muggle science books and there was this diffusion thing that went into the blood… He decides it doesn’t matter because the bathroom two corridors away is a good place to hide and he can always take the rest of the potions. The blonde nods to himself, losing his thoughts and nodding again and again as eh stumbles towards the bathroom. His hands are wet and shaking, the cardboard damp and glass slick. He just needs to hide for a bit.

 

~0~

 

Dean can’t find Seamus in the common room, so he goes into the corridor. The Fat Lady directs him down the corridor and to the left. Dean hurries, socked feet on carpet and he feels like a child sneaking downstairs at Christmas. He thinks that Seamus will have gone to the bathroom two corridors away so he checks there first. And- for once- he’s in luck. The end cubicle shows a tiny figure and the teen is there in a flash. The door isn’t locked, in fact slightly ajar and Dean squeezes in, mutters a quick, “Lumos.” Gasps in horror. Seamus looks _terrible_ , pale and clammy and shaking and tired and Dean wonders how in _hell_ it got this bad. He looked fine at dinner, or maybe he wasn’t and Dean didn’t notice.

He shakes the thoughts away and puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder but pulls it back when he flinches away, “Seamus? Shay, it’s alright, it’s just me.”

“Dean?” he’s looking but he’s not really _seeing_. “Dean, no, you’ve got to… you’ve got…” except he trails off, goes back to staring at the floor, ragged breathing slapping on the tiles.

“Shay? Why don’t we get you back to bed?” soft and smooth like he’s talking to a child because, _God_ , the look on the blonde’s face.

“No, Dean, it’s…” but he’s too tired to form a full sentence. Or too sick. Dean doesn’t know; isn’t sure he _wants_ to know. “ _Dean_ ,” Seamus looks at him then, trails off into gentle coughs which lead to harsh ones which lead to him being sick in the toilet, muscles trembling and twitching and all Dean can really do is hold him up, but it’s not the support he clearly needs. Something clinks onto the floor but, honestly, they’re both a bit distracted right now.

“Alright, y’alright, Shay. Just get it all out,” Dean murmurs, a little absently, rubbing his back. It almost feels as if he’s taking advantage, but he’ll figure that out later.

 

By the end, there’s nothing to bring back up and Seamus is curled into Dean’s side- God, he looks so small- and shivering. Pale, fluttering hands are clutching a grubby green cardboard box and he manages to take it without his friend protesting. It’s not very big, but a bit battered and damp. The artist in him appreciates the aesthetic, but he ignores that part and opens the lid.

There’s- one, two, three- seven phials full of potion. The box reads ‘Mr Morris’ Potion Treatment, Banishing the darkness of the soul.” Dean counts the little cardboard squares in the bottom. 30. A perfect, 5x6 grid of indents with only seven filled. Clinking starts up again, but not from the box and he looks at his friend’s other hand deep in his pocket. Slips his own in and fear tightens in his gut as his fingers tighten over a glass surface. Dean closes his eyes and pulls it out, opens his eyes. Empty. Not a drop left, but the clinking is still there and he pulls out all of them, counts with a building horror. Four empty phials.

And it all clicks into place.

The second day back and Seamus being sick after dinner. Helping him sit on the bed and put his head between his knees; knuckles going white as they clutch a tree and a grimace turning those red lips. Coughing and coughing until Dean was sure his lips were going to turn blue and crimson blood would come up.

“Seamus, did you take all of these today?” because whatever anyone might say, Seamus isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t….

The blonde takes in the green glass, looks slightly confused, “It was… the booklet, it said… said.”

Dean shakes him, only gently, but he’s _scared_ , “Seamus! Did you take all these today?”

“It was… it was stopping them, Dean. Was stopping them,” he takes that as a yes; isn’t prepared for the wave of horror that accompanies it.

“Are you meant to take that many?” Seamus doesn’t answer, lost in the cracked tiles.

“Was trying to get rid of them.”

“Seamus?” Dean hasn’t got it in him to shout.

“I dunno… lost the booklet,” and that’s as far as he gets before he’s leaning over the toilet again, straining to get it _out._ But he can’t. He can’t and Dean can’t do anything but hold him up and cry.

 

~0~

 

“There we are,” Dean lowers his friend onto his bed, pulls the duvet round his shoulders. Still shaking and pale. “D’you want a drink?” the blonde shakes his head. Or maybe he nods. Dean fills a mug with water and brings it back to him anyway, “Let’s see if you can keep that down, hey?” He has to hold the mug for him or he’ll drop it. One hand is holding onto the now-empty box; Dean emptied the rest of the potions down the toilet and felt even worse when Seamus tried to stop him but couldn’t do much more than slap harmlessly at his shoulder.

 

By the time half the water is gone, it’s four in the morning and Seamus is in tears. Dean draws the curtains and gently pulls him down to lie next to him. “What did you do it for, Shay?” he brushes the tears away with his thumb- Seamus is tired but not tired enough the sleep. It’s a miracle. He shakes his head, half sits up again but Dean pulls him back down. “You can tell me- I’m your best mate.”

“I’m sorry,” Seamus whispers. “’M sorry, Dean.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he starts crying again too. “But… _why_?”

“It was… it was going to _fix_ me, Dean, it’d fix me but you ruined it. You _bastard!”_ but he’s too tired for it to mean anything.

“Shay, that stuff was making you ill.”

“Would’ve fixed me afterwards, though.”

“Fix _what_?” Seamus looks terrified. So, so terrified and he wants to hold him and make it better. “Seamus, mate, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“You’ll hate me,” and the look in the eyes; he believes it, genuinely, actually thinks that Dean will hate him.

“I won’t. And… and if I do somehow hate you for it, I won’t tell anyone. But you’re crap at keeping secrets, Shay. And this is what happens when you try it.”

Watery blue eyes meet his, clouded with fatigue and fear though they might be, “Pinkie swear?”

Dean almost laughs, links their fingers, “Pinkie swear.”

Seamus shifts closer, breathe tickling his ear and despite the close proximity he can still barely hear the Irish brogue, “I’m gay. And I’m in love with you.”

The blonde has barely finished before he’s struggling away and Dean hasn’t a clue what to do, but somehow his arm goes across his shoulders anyway, “So?” Which is entirely too casual an answer for something that has reduced Seamus Finnigan to such a stake, _but_.

“So, it’s _wrong_ and _disgusting_ and my Ma and you… I’m _sorry_.”

“Don’t be,” it feels _good_ to hear Seamus say it. “I’m in love with you too.” Dean isn’t stupid and naïve, he knows it doesn’t change anything.

“But, it’s _wrong_. My Ma doesn’t… she doesn’t like it. And I didn’t want everyone to hate me. So, so I tried to change it. But it didn’t _work_ ,” fresh sobs and gentle coughs accompany the confession and Dean wonders how long it’ll take for the potion to leave his system.

He pulls Seamus close, under his chin and rubbing his back again because he doesn’t want him to make himself sick again. That’ll wake everybody up and just get Seamus more agitated and scared. “Then we won’t tell anyone,” he says, as if it’s that simple. He has no doubt even the Slytherins wouldn’t care- hell, there’s been rumours about _Draco and Harry_ , for fuck’s sake. But it wouldn’t matter to Seamus. Not now.

“You don’t hate me?”

“No,” Dean pulls their still-linked hands towards him and presses a kiss to the back of Seamus’. “No, I could never do that."


End file.
